


Exhibit A

by dansunedisco



Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: It’s hard not to notice Lukas Waldenbeck.-Or: the six weeks leading up to the cabin.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkaitlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/gifts).



> I've been writing this for way too long. A million thanks to [doctorkaitlyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/) for basically holding my hand through this whole thing while I screamed my way through it.
> 
> Also, many thanks to Tyler and James for telling us their Philip/Lukas first meeting headcanon. Y'all are the real MVPs and I hope we get to see it on screen with a season 2.

The hearing doesn’t go well. His mom broke parole; failed her drug test and then lied about it. The morning of, they’re late to court and Philip’s excuse about the trains works… until his mom’s scattered, slurred apology follows behind it, and then they're screwed. The case worker’s eyes glaze over, and suddenly they’re just another junkie mom with her teenaged kid in tow, squeezed in between other unfit parents and messed up families.

In the end, the judge is like all the rest: sympathetic to the single mom, unwavering towards the addict. He gives Philip a tight smile before he doles out his sentence and slams the gavel down, two sharp raps that echo in family court. _Foster care until Anne Shea can demonstrate her ability… No contact starts immediately._ The words ring in Philip’s ears through his mom’s muffled crying, the bailiff settling her down and escorting him out. No contact. It’s the worst case scenario. He wants to puke.

He’s led to a long wooden bench and told to sit tight. So he sits and sets his jaw as old, unfair thoughts rise up like bile: if she loved me she wouldn’t do this. If she loved me she would be clean. If she loved me. _If._ He curls his hands into fists and stabs them into the pockets of his hoodie. He should've worn a button-up or something. Perception is everything. He knows better than anyone that he looks like a half-starved kid from Queens.

A long time passes before someone approaches him: a cheap suit carrying an overstuffed briefcase who introduces themselves as his new social worker. By then, Philip’s anger has fizzled out and the stark reality of what's to come looms like a shadow.

“You’ll have to stay the night in group,” Peter the Social Worker says. “Tomorrow we’ll get your things from your mother’s apartment and talk about the road ahead.”

He lifts his shoulders up and down; _okay, whatever._ A city kid attitude he's cultivated since forever. Inside, he is gut-twisting terrified. Some kids live their lives like a revolving door. In foster care, out, back in. Never settled, always uprooted. Some never find their way home again. They just _age out._ As if eighteen is where you draw the line between dependence and not. But these are the cards he's been dealt, and now he has to play them.

The first night in group is the worst. Most of the kids here are of two types -- newbies and system vets, and everyone is either scared or fuck-you tough. He goes for indifferent, quiet; keeps his answers short and concise. He gets a locker with a pin-pad for his stuff, a thin metal wardrobe that smells like lemon-scented cleaner. He knows better to leave anything unattended, ever, even if his roommate jerks his chin at him and tells him so.

Philip lies down to sleep early and spends hours staring at the ceiling instead. He wants to go home. He wants his mom’s shitty walk-up with the tattered yellow couch on the stoop and the thirsty plants she waters every other good day with her tiny pot. But he can’t have it. Not until she’s clean, or he turns eighteen. It’s fucked up, he thinks, that in the end his mom was sentenced, but it's a conviction that lands on him, too; heavy as it is harsh.

He scrubs at his face and wills his thoughts calm. His mom will get clean, he tells himself. She’s a good person. More importantly, she’s his _mom._ She loves him more than anything in this world, but the drugs have their teeth in her and she hasn’t been able to shake it. Not yet. But she will.

Hope springs eternal and all that.

 

* * *

 

 

He meets Gabe and Helen two weeks later. They seem nice. Older. He doesn’t understand why they want a kid like him -- a _teenager_ , nearly an adult -- but he knows he might not get another chance at a decent foster home, so he shrugs and says _yeah, sure_ when Peter asks if they might be a good match for him. As if Philip has a say in anything at all. Peter is his third social worker in so many years, young and adamant when he asks this and that. It’s borderline annoying. They both know how this goes.

After stilted introductions with Gabe and Helen, he sits in the waiting room and listens. His mom is here too, but she and Philip have been separated. He saw a slash of familiar fabric through the doorway before it was shut in his face. They aren’t even allowed to see one another here, where it’s safe and supervised.

There’s shuffling papers and more chatter and Philip strains to hear. “He needs to go to counseling,” Peter says; it’s like listening to someone speak underwater but it’s clear enough. “Once a week until the therapist thinks it's time to draw back.”

He wonders if Peter knows his office has shit soundproofing, and how many kids hear their verdict before the fosters even step out from behind the door, good or bad. Cynically, he thinks, maybe that's the point.

Philip’s damaged is what he really means. Mandatory sessions in group is a thing -- circles of kids like high school cliques, except it’s seated by the spectrum of abuses they’ve faced. There are flyers posted up everywhere that tell them: IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. Philip hasn’t found his fucked up circle yet. Honestly doesn’t plan on it. Some kids have had it bad, really bad. He’s had bad times, but… _But._ He stops. “It’s okay to be upset,” his counselor said once. “It’s _okay._ This isn’t a contest. You know that, right? We all have bad days, and we’re all entitled to feeling them fully.”

He sinks in the office chair and stares at his shoes. They’re from Goodwill and more than a little ratty. Used to be black, now they’re sun-bleached gray. The growth spurt between sixteen and seventeen hit him and his wallet hard. It sucked, he remembers. A bad year for him and his mom with lots of time away from home. He twists his heels into the linoleum and lets the squeaks drown out the rest of what’s in his head.

Two days later, he’s in a giant silver truck with a duffel bag that encompasses all of his worldly possessions and driving north. He feels sick. He just wants to sleep or listen to music, but Gabe and Helen try for small talk and he doesn’t want to piss them off before he’s even had a chance to… well, he’s not even sure what.

“Have you heard of Tivoli?” Gabe asks as they cross over the Throgs.

“No,” he says. He looked it up of course, after that’s where the system and Helen and Gabe agreed to drop him. The town has a clean-cut website boasting farmer’s markets, local festivals, and, according to the 2010 census, a population under 1,250. Philip presumes the numbers don’t include all the cows and horses. More importantly it’s a two hour drive between him and his mom. Not impossible, but damn near close to it.

“It’s close to Red Hook,” Helen tries.

“I’ve heard of Red Hook,” he replies lamely. Helen is almost as awkward as he is, he thinks, and he’s not sure it’s because she’s a sheriff of a small town and has a general expectation of the shenanigans teenagers get up to or what. Gabe, on the other hand, is the local veterinarian and seems way more chill. Philip doesn’t know if they _can’t_ have kids, or just never wanted to until some altruistic bug bit them in the ass before the holidays, but… it doesn’t really matter. He’s stuck with them until they don’t want him anymore.

When they drive through Red Hook, Gabe makes a noise as they pass the sign declaring eight miles left to Tivoli. “Home sweet home,” he says, and he and Helen share a look that screams inside joke. No matter how strange it is to be living with two strangers, Philip has to concede that his foster parents seem to like one another.

They roll into Tivoli soon enough and he listens patiently as Gabe and Helen point out this and that. Farm and feed, the sheriff’s station that’s right next to a second-hand book shop, the local convenience store, the diner with the world’s worst cup of coffee (according to Helen), and church after church. There isn’t a traffic light down the main drag; only a stop sign. Tivoli looks like a movie set for Farmtown, USA. All told, it took maybe five minutes to drive down the strip.

“It’s small,” Philip says for lack of better words. The city was crowded, but it was home. No one cared who he was, or what his mom did or didn’t do. Here, he thinks, swallowing down his worries, everyone will be able to see him. There’s not enough people around to _not._ The fact that he’s coming home with the town sheriff won’t go unnoticed either. He’ll be the narc, if he’s anything at all. Making friends in the city was… whatever. Making _close_ friends was harder. He could never bring anyone home, and most parents wizened up quick to whose kid he was. Here, he thinks, it could be different. Here, he doubts it will be.

 

* * *

 

 

The house is nice. He says as much when he sees it.

“We bought it a year ago,” Gabe says as they roll up the gravel-and-grass driveway. There’s a big ass barn right next to it and the overwhelming smell of farm hits Philip when he opens the car door. They really aren’t even that far away from the city, and yet he feels like he’s light-years away. In a whole other universe. His mom always told him the city was like a country all on its own. He sees that now.

He follows his foster parents inside. He can tell that they’re trying to be cool -- Helen most of all -- like he’s some skittish kitten, like he’s about to bolt and run all the way back to Queens the second he gets spooked. He resolves to be _chill_.

After a quick tour of the kitchen and bathroom and the upstairs, they guide him to a room downstairs.

“And this one’s yours. We’ll, uh, leave you to get acquainted,” Gabe says, and Helen hovers for a beat before she, too, unsticks her hip from the doorjamb and disappears.

They’ve given him the guest room. There’s a small desk against the window that looks out to trees and trees and more trees, and the sheets on the bed are brand new stiff. It feels temporary. Like he’s gone to visit Gabe and Helen and in no time he’ll be back home where he belongs. His stomach twists, feeling homesick here in a way he never did in group. He sits down. The wood frame creaks under his weight. He bounces a bit and runs his hand across the duvet, biting at the slip of dried skin on his lower lip. The covers are soft and clean and he swallows down the natural instinct to hate it all. Gabe and Helen are nice people with nice things. And it’s only temporary.

He comes out of the room an hour later. He still hasn’t unpacked, but he did nap for a bit. Gabe is the first one to notice him. He’s pecking away at a laptop keyboard, and he drops his nose down to look at Philip over wire-framed glasses. Philip rubs at his arm, awkward.

“Do you, um… work from home or whatever?” he asks.

“I have a closet-sized practice in town, but I usually do house calls,” Gabe says. “I’m a big animal vet. Horses and cows and sheep.”

“Goats too?”

Gabe opens his mouth as if to reply seriously, then breaks out into a grin. “The goats usually handle themselves. Very independent animals.”

Philip offers a tentative smile back. Joking is good, but his mood wavers and threatens to plummet when he sees Helen coming around the front porch. It’s not that he doesn’t like Helen, but she’s -- not cold, exactly, but distant. Like everyone but Gabe is kept a full arm’s length away and that’s just the way things are and will be.

She disappears from sight soon enough, but he hears her stomping her boots on the welcome mat, and when she steps through the foyer she looks at Philip like she nearly forgot he was here too.

“Philip. Hi,” she says. “You settling in okay?”

He nods. “The room is nice. Thank you.”

“We can swing by the Target at Hudson Valley if you want to personalize anything,” Helen says. It almost feels like her words are scripted. She hooks her thumbs into her belt loops, shoulders relaxed and back. The stance is every cop he’s ever seen, and Philip chews at the inside of his cheek before nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’d be cool.” What they’ve given him is more than enough, but maybe he can throw a poster up or something. If they want him to.

“Well. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Gabe shuts his laptop with a soft click. “Philip, want to help me with dinner?”

 

* * *

 

That first night, they talk about rules over spaghetti and meatballs Philip helped shape by hand. Gabe even brings out a fancy parmesan cheese grater and a sprig of a leafy green herb to nestle in the homemade tomato sauce. Helen poured herself a glass of wine and kept up a wry commentary over technique throughout, but otherwise remained on the sidelines.

They don’t ask a lot of Philip. They want to have breakfast and dinner together, if possible. He has a curfew, but it’s flexible. No drinking or drugs, period. Treat the house like it’s yours. Chores are shared. Easy stuff.

It’s a little weird and a lot to take in, this newfound non-dysfunction, but Philip sits and eats as they build structured walls around his new life and tries not to think about the days ahead.

 

 

 

Gabe takes him to school the next morning. The administration already knows Philip’s coming. His grades from North Queens have already been transferred over courtesy of Peter the Social Worker. His first full day will be tomorrow. Today he’s getting the tour and the locker and his course list. Transferring after the year’s started will suck, but Philip’s smart. Smart enough to use the interruption to his advantage, at least.

Philip tries not to feel nervous as he heads towards a new school with new kids. He spent an embarrassing amount of time this morning on his hair, and flipped the cuffs of his jeans up to hide the frays. His expectations are ground zero, but there’s still a part of him that wants to be liked. The therapist tried telling him his need for validation is a manifestation of living in the caretaker role in his parent-child relationship. Philip just thinks it’s human nature.

“So,” Gabe says. “Do you have a favorite subject? Mine was math, believe it or not.”

“Not really,” he lies. He likes history the most, and biology is a close second. If they’re talking about electives, he would name photography. He took it last year and got to check cameras out all the time. It’s the one thing he really, truly likes. To be present and engaged, but hidden and safe behind the lens. He’s not sure why he doesn’t tell Gabe but by the time he’s unstuck his tongue, they’ve pulled up to Red Hook High and the moment for sharing is over.

He follows Gabe up the steps to the administrator’s office. All told, the enrolling process is relatively painless. He shakes the principal’s hand and sits in with his new counselor who assures him he should mesh just fine with his new curriculum. He begs off on joining any of the school’s sports teams with a promise _maybe later_ that he’s sure doesn’t ingratiate him to them -- they waived their summer tryout requirement just for him, apparently -- and that’s that.

Gabe’s chatting with the school secretary when Philip is escorted out of the counselor’s office. There must be some expression on his face that gives his discomfort away, as Gabe asks, “Everything went well, I hope?”

“Yeah, just fine,” he says, and declines Gabe’s offer of a grand tour. There are a handful of stragglers heading to class, and he would rather delay the inevitable. He can already feel the curious stares itching at his neck.

 

* * *

 

He takes his bike to school the following day, feeling more than a little lame when he rolls onto campus and locks it up. He’s a city kid; never saw the reason to get his license when it was so expensive and, essentially, useless -- two things he can always do without. Most of the kids, from what he can see, take the bus or drive. He looks down at his 6-speed. Helen and Gabe gifted it to him last night, along with a pair of leather boots; welcome to Tivoli presents, not try-hard but still almost too much. They have an old Honda they said he could take once he gets his license, but Philip's not even sure he'll be around long enough to see that offer come to fruition. He takes a deep breath and blows it out through his nose.

His first class of the day is English. American Literature to be exact. He’s already read _Their Eyes Were Watching God,_ so he tunes out the class discussion after his humiliating, very public, straight from his worst nightmare classroom introduction and scribbles doodles into the margins of his fancy Five Star notebook. The desk is a touch too small for him. It's easy to focus on his knees knocking into the slate and nothing else.

The morning periods fly by in a blur, and he grits his teeth as every teacher gives him a peppy plug at the beginning of class. The plug doesn’t work. No one approaches him in the hallways after class. He sits alone at lunch, picks at the sandwich Helen packed him and considers skipping his afternoon classes before he reminds himself that most of his future hinges on scholarships and decent grades. He daydreams about going back to Queens instead. Sitting on his stoop with his mom’s thin arm wrapped around his shoulders, the smell of cigarettes and the almond cherry lotion she liked so much clinging to her skin.

The end-of-lunch bell rings soon enough, and he swings his backpack on his shoulder. It takes him five minutes past the final bell to figure out he headed towards the wrong hall, and circles back to the right classroom in the middle of the teacher’s lecture. He’s waved in, and Philip grits his teeth once more as hushed snickers rise like a tide among his classmates.

“Class, this is Philip Shea,” the teacher says. The sign on his desk says Mr. Calvin. He has a slip of paper in front of him that he’s reading off of and Philip wonders if the entire faculty got briefed about the new foster kid transfer.

Some kid in the back of the class coughs behind his fist; a poorly hidden, “Narc.”

The entire class giggles. The teacher snaps at them to settle down and points Philip towards an empty seat in front.

 _I am trapped in a B-list teen movie,_ Philip thinks. All he needs is a paper airplane to whack him straight in the face, or maybe a spitball or two once he’s sat down to complete the vision. At least he didn’t have to suffer through an explanation as to why he’s in Tivoli now, and how he’s enjoying small town life compared to big city living or whatever. He unpacks his notebook and pretends to pay attention.

Fifteen long minutes tick by before the door opens again. A guy squeezes through with a slip of paper for Mr. Calvin, backpack hanging loose by his index finger. This new kid -- his hair is iced out and he’s wearing blue plaid and when he smiles and shrugs through whatever excuse he feeds the teacher, Philip sits up straight and thinks _oh no._

 

* * *

 

It’s hard not to notice Lukas Waldenbeck. He’s tall. Taller than Philip, even. And popular. He rides dirt bikes as a sport and he’s _killer, bro._ He has a girlfriend, too -- a pretty girl named Rose which, honestly, doesn’t surprise Philip one bit. It didn’t take him long at all to realize where in the food chain Lukas fell. Guys like him are cool. Guys like him have girlfriends. Guys like him don’t pay guys like Philip any attention except for, maybe, shoving them up against lockers when they feel like it, so he pushes his curiosity away and tries not to draw any unwanted attention, anytime, anywhere.

Which, of course, works… until he’s leaving the convenience store a week into his post-school routine and finds Lukas parked directly next to his pathetic bicycle. He has a helmet propped on his thigh, his hair messy and haloed in sunlight. Philip pulls up short. He bought a Dr. Pepper and half-expects Lukas to demand it from him. Instead, Lukas jerks his chin at him in greeting.

“Hey man,” Lukas says. “You’re the new kid. Philip, right?”

He just barely keeps the bewildered _‘what?’_ between his teeth. “Yup.”

“I’m Lukas.”

“I know who you are,” he says, the wrong thing, and drops his head in a slow nod, lips pressed together.

Lukas gives him a smirk, confident and cocky. “Cool,” he says; a concise _as you should._ “So, uh, you like motocross?”

He really should say no. He doesn’t even know how to drive a car, except for in theory, and he honestly couldn’t care less about dirt bikes if he tried. But lies have a way of getting out of his mouth quicker than the truth sometimes and, like an utter idiot, he tells Lukas, “Yeah, man. Totally.”

 

* * *

 

He gets Lukas’ number with a flimsy agreement to hang out between them, and Philip rushes home to Google instead of hammering down his homework. Motocross, suffice to say, is boring. He had a skateboard in middle school -- a good six months when his mom was clean and held down a job, enough to buy him a board like he wanted -- but that is the extent of his indie sports knowledge. None of it interests him, except that it interests Lukas… and he’s interested in Lukas. It’s sad is what it is, but he toggles through pages of terminology like he’s studying for a test anyway.

An hour later, he lands on Lukas’ YouTube channel, mentally editing the footage that, truthfully, isn’t that great to begin with. He could use that. He’s good at cutting videos together and knows what angles to use, and when the truth comes out that he doesn’t know shit or _care,_ he’ll be too useful to discard.

His therapist would have a field day with this shit, he thinks. She’d tell him to stop while he’s ahead or tell him a friendship built on an imbalance is bound to topple over, or something more significant but ultimately useless. He’s seventeen and the most popular guy in school wants to hang out with him. He doesn’t want to be rational, and anyway, it’s just easier this way. He plugs his earbuds in and gets lost in the lie.

It takes him two hours to splice together a video that is, in his humble opinion, leagues better than what Lukas has, and another hour to render it; then he bites his thumbnail down for another thirty minutes contemplating sending the video file to Lukas. _Do it,_ he tells himself. He can’t do any worse.

He hits send; tosses his phone under his pillow like it’s on fire and gives himself until after dinner to check it.

The wait is terrible. He gives Gabe and Helen halfhearted answers about his first day over salad and pork chops, and lies through his teeth about feeling accepted and welcomed at school. He can tell they're not buying it, but neither have to words to make him feel better about it, and if they have advice, they're holding onto it for now. He's thankful for that. Gabe is cool and Helen is alright, but they’re not -- they’re not his mom.

There is a text message waiting for him when he finally checks his phone. It's from Lukas, and he grows hot and cold all over when he reads it.

_the vid is sick dude. how did u do it?_

He's shaky and relieved, and has to wipe the sweat from his palms on his jeans before writing back. _It was pretty easy,_ he types back. _I can show you sometime._

He gets a thumbs up emoji in response. It's silly and stupid but it warms Philip’s stomach like nothing ever has before.

 

* * *

 

He and Lukas spend a good chunk of the evening texting back and forth, but the next day proves Philip’s earlier theory: when he tries to talk to Lukas in the hallway, he is frozen out. No acknowledgment except for a raised eyebrow; _who the fuck are you?_ It's embarrassing more than anything else, and he burns red at the neck over the rejection. It hurts too. Of course it hurts. He shares a school and a class with someone he pegged as a tentative friend, someone who is pretending not to know him now -- and what's worse, it's not like he even asked for Lukas’ attention. _Lukas_ approached him. Awkward laughter follows him in the hallway the rest of the day. He promises to tell Lukas to fuck off the next time he hears from him. _If_ he hears from him. It's a promise that lasts as long as his phone doesn’t vibrate with a text from Lukas.

_u want to see the bike today?_

Philip wants to ignore Lukas; or better yet, divulge the fact that he thinks motocross is pretty pointless. But his traitorous fingers unlock his phone and he agrees to meet Lukas on his way home. He doesn't know much about Tivoli, but he knows enough to recognize the location Lukas names as off the beaten path. Either Lukas is trying to lure him to Point B for a convenient murder, or he still doesn't want to be seen with the new kid. He's banking on the latter.

He unlocks his bike from the rack and takes off, using his phone’s GPS to find the dirt road he needs to make it to the forest access. He's half expecting to be stood up, but Lukas is waiting for him when he gets there.

“I thought you weren't gonna show up, dude,” Lukas says.

Philip rolls his eyes. Lukas probably gets whatever he wants at the snap of a finger, doesn’t understand or care that Philip doesn’t have the ability to teleport. “I have a bike, remember? My max speed is, like, nothing miles per hour.”

“Whatever. Come on, check this out.” He pats his dirt bike like it's a prized pony, and Philip comes over to inspect it like he knows what he's doing.

“Is it fast?” he asks, keeping his tone carefully unimpressed.

“Uh, _yeah._ You want to go for a ride? I can take you to some cool spots.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe.”

“Come on. It'll be fun. I don't let anyone on this thing.”

 _Not even your girlfriend?_ “Wow. I'm honored.”

“You should be.”

Lukas gives him a helmet and a crash course on how to, in his words, ride bitch. “Just hold on and try not to fight it when I lean, okay? It's easy.”

Philip knows getting on the back of a bike with a relative stranger is a bad idea, but he gets on behind Lukas anyway, links his arms around Lukas’ front and tries to relax like he was instructed as they skid off with a high-pitched whir.

Lukas seems to give him the whole backwoods tour, rolling them over hills and darting between trees. It's exhilarating, and it's easy to laugh and whoop along with Lukas as they go. He feels free for the first time since coming to Tivoli, the wind whipping into his eyes, the buzz of the engine drowning out the rest of the noise in his head; and the company, as much as he recognizes that Lukas is a complete asshole, isn't half bad.

Afterwards, Lukas laughs at him when he hops off the bike with wobbly legs. “Never been on a bike before?”

“Not a dirt bike,” he admits. He waves vaguely. “You're pretty good. Didn’t kill us, at least.”

“Ha, _thanks._ I'm ranked, like, top 5 in the state for juniors.”

“No big deal.” He knows from his internet search that Lukas is actually the regional state champion.

“Whatever, dude. That video clip you did for me the other day was super sick. Think you could do more for me?”

“Yeah, I guess. I can film some new stuff too.”

“Shit, yeah. That'd be hella chill. Maybe this weekend if you're free -- I think Jason’s throwing a party on Friday so I'll probably be recovering all Saturday. So Sunday?”

Philip licks his lips. He thinks about how easily Lukas throws out other friends, and how none of them are invitations for him to come with. The only one who tolerates Philip in school is Tommy, and he’s pretty sure it’s only because he helped Tommy with his yearbook assignment. But hanging with _someone_ is better than not hanging out at all, so he shrugs. “Sunday works.”

The rest of the week drags on with much of the same. Philip tries not to feel like a house guest overstaying his welcome, keeps up with his schoolwork, is ignored by Lukas during the day, and keeps up a steady stream of texting between them after school. On Wednesday he goes to his court-mandated therapy session in Red Hook and plays with a stress ball as he gives his court-mandated therapist vague responses.

Saturday, he takes his phone out and takes pictures of Gabe and Helen’s farm, playing with lighting and landscapes, thinking about how much his mom would love Tivoli if she were here. She always talked about going upstate. He doesn’t have her cell number saved in his phone, but the landline -- if it’s still working -- he has memorized.

Lukas doesn't text him at all that day, and he doesn't dare instigate. Sunday is Sunday, and Philip’s waited for less for longer. It's not quite playing hard to get, but something tells him playing it cool, always, is what he needs to do. To get _what_ , he doesn’t know.

Come Sunday, he rides out to the same forest access road after telling Gabe and Helen he's going out for a group project. He and Lukas spend most of the morning hanging out, taking the occasional video for Lukas’ film reel but mostly sitting in the tall grass that's Lukas’ father’s farm.

“All of this is ours,” Lukas says. He points towards the hill that clips over the horizon, and then vaguely west and east. He pitches his voice low, “Everything the light touches, Simba.”

“Holy shit.” Philip shoves Lukas with a laugh. “You're a fucking nerd.”

“Don't tell me you don't like The Lion King. I'll leave you right here, right now.”

Lukas mimes standing up and Philip grabs his sleeve to tug him back down. “You better not,” he laughs. “I’ll like whatever you want.”

His hand is still on Lukas’ sleeve when he realizes how much closer they're sitting now, and the thought of leaning in and kissing Lukas pulls at him, a sharp and sudden thought. There have been moments, tiny flashes, when Philip thinks _he likes me too_ ; a lingering glance, Lukas looping his calloused fingers around Philip’s wrist to pull him tighter against his back when his grip became too slack, apparently. How Lukas doesn't seem to talk about Rose or girls at all. But he blinks the moment away and pulls his hand back, swallowing thick around the lump in his throat. Guys like Lukas aren't -- they don't --

Lukas ducks his head and swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So… why are you in Tivoli? Why are you with Gabe and the _Sheriff_?”

All of the warmth of the day evaporates and leaves Philip chewing on the skin of his inner cheek. “Haven't you heard?” he says, low and flat.

“Yeah, I guess. Word on the street, that kind of shit.”

“And you want to tell them the truth, straight from the source.”

“I'm curious and won't tell.”

For once, Philip _wants_ to lie. He wants Lukas to like him, and nothing chases people away faster than admitting his mom has a serious problem and he's probably just as fucked up too. He could spin it, he thinks. His mom isn't in the picture and Helen and Gabe are some long-lost cousins looking in after him. But he doesn’t want to. He brushes his palms across the close-cropped grass by his thigh. “My mom's… not okay. Into pills… and can't take care of me, according to the judge. So I'm here now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Um… it's just me and my dad,” Lukas offers. “My mom died when I was six. Cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, I mean… I didn't mean to--”

“I get it. It's okay.”

“No… it just… it sucks. I know it sucks. That's what I meant.” He pauses. “I hope your mom gets better soon.”

Philip’s stomach flutters, looking at Lukas. He hasn't known him long at all, but underneath the veneer of small town rich kid attitude is a thread of sincerity that plucks at Philip like no one else has. “Thanks,” is all he can say, all he trusts himself to say, and moves on to something else: “So what has everyone said about me then.”

“What?”

“You said people at school were talking.”

“Well,” he starts off all gravely serious, but the crooked smile that blooms on his face a beat later gives him away: “They say you have good hair.”

Philip reaches up to comb through it against his better judgment, flips Lukas off when he starts to laugh. “Fuck off.” He should say something about Lukas’ bleached out hair, too, but he doesn't. He likes it. He digs his elbow into Lukas and tries to push him over instead.

Lukas pushes back, laughing, and bolts upright, the sudden empty space leaving Philip tumbling into the dry grass below. He groans, embarrassed more than anything.

“Too slow,” Lukas replies. His eyebrows bump up obnoxiously once, twice, but his jab is tempered by an apology of an outstretched hand. He yanks Philip to his feet easily, and Philip -- well, he tries not to pay attention to the flex of the muscles in Lukas’ forearm, or what his hyper focus means.

The rest of the morning feels like a dream. The sky is a clear blue and the breeze almost uncomfortably hot, like the last bit of summer trying to burn them all out before fall. Lukas takes them to another dusty field in the middle of nowhere and Philip spends a good half hour explaining directional lighting and why a lot of Lukas’ old footage doesn’t work.

“You’re a nerd,” Lukas declares, not for the first time, but there’s a weird look on his face when Philip looks up from his phone. Another flash of _maybe_ chases down Philip’s spine and his eyes flick down to Lukas’ mouth, his parted lips, before he huddles back down over his screen.

Lukas’ dad texts Lukas around lunch to tell him he's off for a few hours in Poughkeepsie. Apparently it's enough time for Lukas to feel like he can bring Philip home without facing any consequences outside of the little world they built together. “We probably have like five hours of video by now,” he reasons and all Philip can do is _yeah, man yeah, totally_ in return. The invitation feels huge.

Lukas makes them both a gigantic sandwich on sourdough when they get to the Waldenbeck house and Philip replays all the videos he's taken throughout the day, wipes mustard from his lip as Lukas crowds into his space on the couch and crows over cellphone footage. “This is really good,” he insists, “like, I should pay you good.”

Philip sucks his bottom lip in; he can feel the back of his neck burning. “No, it's… it’s not.”

“Can't say I didn't offer. You wanna watch a movie?” he asks. “My dad isn't supposed to be home until after 6.”

Philip agrees, even if he wants to grab Lukas by the shoulders and demand why having him over is so terrible -- if anyone else has to sneak away before his dad comes home, or if it's just him. He never does buck up the courage.

Lukas’ place is nice; nicer than Helen and Gabe’s, even. All spacious and dark wood and chrome kitchen appliances. A huge flat screen sits over the mantle of a fireplace in the living room, but Lukas guides Philip upstairs to his room where another big TV and an Xbox One are hooked up. Motocross posters are hung on the wall, some band posters too. The bed is made and a basket of what Philip presumes is dirty laundry sits in the far corner, a pair of mud-splattered jeans balled on top. It’s otherwise tidier than what Philip would've expected.

Lukas turns the TV on and tosses Philip a controller. “You can choose,” he says, and reaches for the hem of his riding shirt. Philip averts his eyes as Lukas pulls it up and over his head, steadfastly keeps his gaze locked on the Netflix app and not at all on Lukas’ dim reflection on the screen.

Lukas flops down on his bed with a sigh, links his fingers behind his head. “Any day now.”

Philip picks a safe bet and sits down on the edge of the bed, sets the controller next to him as the opening credits roll. It doesn't take long before he's a bundle of nerves, completely unable to relax and eyeing the floor. He could sit down there. He _should_ sit down there. Lukas’ bed is big enough for the both of them, but -- that's not normal, right? Two sort-of not really friends sharing a bed.

In the end, it's Lukas who tells him to come up to the headboard. “Your giant hair is blocking the screen,” he adds at Philip's questioning look.

There's a good foot of space between them when Philip crawls up and settles down, but the gap isn't wide enough for him to completely forget the fact that he's on Lukas’ bed, in his room, in his house. That though no one knows he's here -- that no one _will_ know he's here -- he was still invited inside, he was still deemed good enough to spend the entire day with. So he folds his arms across his stomach and consciously fixes himself in a pose so relaxed he's sure he's going to leave the house with the worst crick in the neck of his life. _Be normal,_ he wills himself. _Be fucking normal._

The movie is entertaining enough, and a good choice: Lukas shamelessly repeats lines as they're spoken, enough that Philip calls him out on being a total dork and soon forgets that he's stress sweating through his t-shirt, lying in bed with his crush.

“Favorite movie?” Lukas asks once the credits roll.

“Non-Disney?”

“Shut up.”

“Ha… um…” He thinks about curling up on the couch with his mom, binge-watching the highlights of the Brat Pack on the weekends; Back to the Future and Blade Runner, neon-colored dystopias and big perms. Memories just for him. He picks at his jeans, looks sideways at Lukas. “I have a bunch.”

“Way to narrow it down for me.”

He huffs a laugh. “I like the 80s.”

“Uh, yeah. I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your jacket, for one. Like… Top Gun called. Maverick wants his shit back.”

“ _Ha._ ”

“What’s with it anyway?”

Philip looks down. Patches are sewn onto it, faded by time and wear, _Shea_ in yellow in cursive above the breast. “Was my dad’s,” he says. All he knows about his father is that he was in the Navy, and walked out on him and his mom one day and never came back. At least, that’s the story he was given. Sometimes he imagines he can smell this person who’s half his DNA: cigarettes and sweat and a man’s aftershave in the leather. Sometimes he wonders if his dad ever thinks about him, if he has another family. A happy one with well-adjusted kids and a perfect wife. “He left my mom when I was like… three or four or something. Left this.”

“Oh. He never… tried to know you or whatever?”

He shrugs. Growing up, he was convinced his mom was all he needed. Sometimes his mom’s boyfriends would settle in and play at step-dad father figure, but they never lasted long. “Guess not.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, because it really is. You can’t miss who you don’t know and never knew, and anyway, he’s had a good seventeen years to come to terms with having only his mom. “So. What’s yours?”

Lukas’ lips turn down a fraction and Philip elaborates, “Favorite movie, idiot. Follow the flow of the conversation.”

“God, you’re such a _dick,”_ he replies, but all the sting behind it washes away with the laughter that follows.

 

 

 

Sunday comes to a close when Bo sends Lukas a message about dinner plans. “He wants to eat together,” Lukas says, his shoulders slumping forward like that’ll make his frame smaller somehow.

Philip notices. He notices a lot of things about Lukas. His hair, his jawline, the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the color of his lips, his teeth. How his smile turns tight whenever he mentions his father. “I should probably go home,” he says. He’s not waiting for an invite to stay, and he doesn’t get one.

Instead, Lukas gives him a ride back to the back road where he left his bicycle propped up behind some brambles and trees. He slides gingerly off the back of Lukas’ and tugs the helmet up over his head, hooks it back up to its clip like Lukas taught him.

“I gotta get back,” Lukas says.

“Okay. See you.”

“Yeah, see you.” He squeezes the handlebars. “And… um. Philip… when I asked about your dad…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe… maybe it’s better that you’re here.”

He dips his chin, tries not to read between the lines. If he didn’t land in Tivoli, he would never have met Lukas. They wouldn’t be here, where they are now. But that’s not what Lukas means. “Maybe,” he agrees.

 

 

 

The dusty road back to Helen and Gabe’s leaves Philip plenty of him to reflect. The thing is… he likes Lukas. He likes him a lot, and he’s only known him for a week and some change. And he's pretty sure, based on what he knows, that Lukas would not take too kindly to knowing it. He’s not even sure that Lukas would accept it if Philip told him he’s…

 _Gay_ , he thinks. Maybe it’s weird, but he never really labeled himself before coming here. It wasn’t a big deal in the city. Not really. He knew plenty of kids who fell anywhere and everywhere on the spectrum. No one judged. No one had time to judge, wrapped up in their own shit as they were.

Tivoli is the opposite. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and outsiders like him are made to feel it. Even Helen told him it was hard for her when she first moved here. He must’ve really looked miserable, he thinks, for her to share that about herself. He sighs. This is a dilemma if he's ever faced one, and another moment where he misses his mom so fiercely he feels sick from it.

 

 

 

He comes home to Helen a second away from ordering Chinese take-away, a burnt pot in the sink.

“Gabe went to help with the Smiths’ cow,” she explains. “I was trying to boil water for some ramen.”

They stare at one another: not a son, not a mother. Just two people staring at ruined dinner.

The moment is enough to lift Philip’s spirits all on its own. Helen is probably the most competent person Philip knows now, and yet she's defeated by a pot and some water. It’s _funny._ “We can still make ramen,” he says. He knows about a hundred tricks to make a dollar stretch _and_ taste good. He toes out of his shoes and hangs his jacket up, goes to the fridge for some eggs and sriracha. “So, uh. How was work?”

“Not bad. Relaxed. How was that, um, project of yours?”

He almost forgets that was his excuse for being out all day today, eyebrows drawing together in momentary confusion, but he recovers quickly. It was a good day, even if tomorrow won't be any different from any other he’s had in Tivoli. Not that he’s going to tell her that.

He gives Helen a small smile. “Not bad,” he says. “Got a lot done.”

 

* * *

 

“Holly’s parents are out of town this weekend,” Lukas says. “She’s throwing a party.”

It’s a Wednesday, and Philip’s coming up on his sixth week in Tivoli. He told Helen and Gabe he was going to his therapist straight after school, but he ditched to hang out with Lukas instead. They’re sitting atop the archway of an old tunnel that’s turned into their secondary meeting spot, and Philip’s not really sure how to reply. “Okay… are you going?”

“I guess,” he replies; half-shrugs. “Rose wants to go.”

“But you don’t.”

“Not really. I mean -- I don’t know. Shit’s all the same, you know?”

Philip hasn’t been to a single party in Tivoli. Lukas has to know this. “Oh yeah, totally,” he says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “Bonfires and beer pong, more bonfires and beer pong. Total Groundhog Day.”

“Whatever. I just… they’re not fun anymore. Don’t want to drink. And I can’t get high, so that’s out.”

Philip raises his eyebrow.

“I have a race weekend after next and I’m due for a piss test.” He shrugs. “Can’t have anything in my system. I’d be dropped by my sponsors in a heartbeat. My dad would flip. Full on nuclear meltdown, probably.”

“You can have fun without it,” Philip offers.

“Yeah, watching everyone act an ass and throw up everywhere when you’re stone-cold sober is the best. But thanks for the after school special.”

He swallows. “Then… what do you want to do instead?”

“We could… I don’t know. We could go to my dad’s cabin.”

Philip’s fingers tighten on the stone underneath. _We could_ , Lukas said. We. They’ve been spending more and more time together, after school and the weekends. Sometimes Lukas begs off to be with Rose or his other friends, but more often than not… it’s just them. “You keep talking about that cabin,” he says.

“It’s pretty cool. My dad usually has a six-pack up there, so.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to drink.”

Lukas looks at him, gaze flicking down then back up and away. “If you… I mean, if you were there. We could. I wouldn’t mind.”

 _We,_ Philip thinks. He should maybe say no. Tell Lukas to go hang out at a party with his girlfriend instead, tell him he’s busy doing something else. But he’s learned to be a little selfish, these past few weeks, and his gut tells him something big might happen up at that cabin by the lake. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”


End file.
